


A Warm Winter

by nutmeag83



Series: Blood is Thicker than Water, but Love is Thicker than Blood [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Family, Feels, Gen, John Watson is a Good Parent, John is a Good Friend, Knitting, M/M, Parentlock, Platonic Life Partners, Sherlock is a Good Parent, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Winter, friends to life partners, sherlock is smol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 10:41:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17343824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nutmeag83/pseuds/nutmeag83
Summary: It's just after the holidays, and Sherlock is bored. He finds some yarn in the attic and decides to learn how to knit so he can make Rosie a hat, all while trying to come up with ways to make sure the Watsons stay at Baker Street for good.Or, the one where I wanted Sherlock to knit and be smol.





	A Warm Winter

**Author's Note:**

> I needed a short little something to take my mind off a bigger story I’m currently writing (get ready for demons and conspiracy theories, folks), so when this little idea popped into my head, I went with it. Umm, it was supposed to be like 1k but yeah … I got carried away. As I always do. I’m already writing a second story in the series too. *sigh* Hope you like! 
> 
> Not beta’d or Britpicked. I was too busy knitting to ask anyone. ;)

Either London’s criminals were just taking an extra long holiday after Christmas and New Year’s or they’d all simultaneously decided to turn over a new leaf this year. Or perhaps Sherlock had just put all the interesting ones behind bars already. Whatever the reason, there wasn’t a good case to be had. He’d read all the interesting journal articles and done all the experiments he could at the flat—which, with Rosie being at the curious toddler age, meant a very few—and was officially at a loss at what to do. Rosie was back in nursery and John back at work after the holiday break. Mrs. Hudson had grown tired of Sherlock’s sulking and had taken off for her sister’s. He was all alone at 221 Baker Street, and it was hateful.

He wracked his brain for an experiment, but he either didn’t have the equipment or he wouldn’t be able finish it before he needed to pick up Rosie from nursery. A creak above him as the old wood beams settled in the warm afternoon sun had him glancing up at the ceiling, reminding him of the extra room next to John and Rosie’s. Mrs. Hudson had been muttering about having it cleared out so the Watsons could spread out on the top floor.

He wondered if there was anything interesting piled up there. Curiosity snagged, he slipped into a pair of trainers languishing under his bed, switched his dressing gown for a cardigan (John’s? It was too small for his own long arms, but he couldn’t recall John wearing it either), and prepared for a dusty adventure. For science, of course.

An hour later, Sherlock could confirm there was nothing worthy of science in the spare space. Dust may be eloquent, but it did no good when no one had been in the room for years and there was no case to solve. It was mostly there to make him sneeze. He hadn’t even found any juicy old journals or elicit photographs. It was mostly clothing and half-broken furniture from the early twentieth century. Boring.

He unfolded the top of the final box—despite the prosaic nature of the other boxes, he wasn’t about to quit until he knew for sure that none contained anything interesting—with yet another sneeze. Inside were bags of what looked like more clothing or perhaps linens. Something squishy. He rolled his eyes and was about to close the box again when his fingers brushed something that crackled. Old paper? Yes, a stack of folded pages held together by ribbon. Steamy love letters? Blackmail? Midnight confessions?

Ah, no. The weather. And something about sheep. Dull. The second page was another letter. Illness in this one. He almost shoved them back into the box, but sheer boredom had him sitting on the dusty floor to read them all through.

_My darling Marie,_

_What rotten luck that you have come down with the flu now, just days before you were due to come see me! I have been looking forward to your visit for months. It’s the only thing that’s kept me going. I miss you so. Leah tries to keep me occupied, but there’s only so much little sisters can do, sweet as she is to try. She isn’t you. She isn’t my very best friend. _

_But I mustn’t complain when you are suffering far worse. You poor dear. Be sure to get plenty of rest. I know that’s the last thing you wish to do, with the way you prefer to run around the city, but it really is for the best. With that in mind, and knowing you need something to keep your mind and body occupied as much as possible, I am sending you a guide on knitting and some yarn I spun from our latest shearing. The blue dye I used is a perfect match for your eyes._

_Now stop your laughing right now. I know you shun the more “womanly” crafts, but I’ll have you know that monks once were known for their knitting and weaving skills. Given that you’ve also shunned marriage, I think this will be a good fit for you. Haha!_

_Please, darling. For me. Stay rested until you are fully recuperated. The sooner you convalesce, the sooner we will see each other again. I miss your face so. Return to me soon._

_Your dearest friend,  
Katie_

_P.S. I watched the meteor shower from the field last night. It wasn’t the same without you lying next to me._

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Someone was pining hard. He read through the others to find they were similar. Apparently Marie recovered from her illness and was able to visit a few weeks later, then the two women were apart for another year. The last letter was filled with gushing and far too many exclamation marks. Apparently Marie had finally decided to move out to whatever sheep-filled dull countryside location where Katie resided, and so the letters ended.

He stood and moved to shove the letters back in the box. His little finger caught the edge of the top bag and pulled it open, revealing the blue yarn Katie had made for her “friend.” It looked as if Marie had continued to shun the womanly crafts, because the yarn was still in un-knitted balls. He pulled one out and looked at it. It was a beautiful dark blue, somewhere between sapphire and navy. It reminded him of something. Oh. Of course. John’s eyes. And Rosie’s. He smiled at the thought of them.

It hadn’t been completely smooth sailing since they had moved in half a year before. Rosie cried and required help with dressing, eating, and bathing, but she was also warm and sweet to hold when rocking her to sleep and her little giggle when she was playing always made him smile. John wasn’t much easier, still prone to outbursts of anger and being not always accommodating to the people around him, even his own daughter, but he was getting better. Therapy was helping—both of them, as Sherlock had started going to his own sessions as well. Still, despite the difficulties, it was worth it. He felt so much less alone with them around. He was involved in their lives and they in his. Their schedules were intertwined. They had fun together. It was so much better than during the years it had been only him and Mrs. Hudson in the building.

He still worried some days that it would be too much, though, that John would say they needed more space or less sulking from Sherlock, or maybe more of a family. A real family. With a wife and mother for Rosie. Sherlock dreaded that day. He didn’t want this to end. But he didn’t know how to make them stay. He tried reining in his reactions. Tried not to be so sulky when he was bored, less prone to the tantrums that had run his younger adult years. Hence his being in the attic now rather than destroying the flat with an experiment that could hurt Rosie or be the last straw for John.

The afternoon sunlight from the nearest window shined on the ball in his hand and it came to him. A way to both stay occupied and show his appreciation for the Watsons putting up with cramped quarters and a moody Sherlock. John had been saying just the other day that Rosie needed a new winter hat, as she’d almost outgrown her last one. He’d planned on buying a new one, but this was better. He’d learn to knit one for her. That would show his dedication to helping John raise Rosie, wouldn’t it?

He hauled the box of yarn down to the lounge where he could see better. He had two hours before he needed to fetch Rosie, and another hour after that until John returned home. Plenty of time to learn.

An hour later, he hadn’t made much progress. The booklet that had come with the yarn seemed to suffer under the misapprehension that women were born knowing how to knit and just needed a “little refresher” to start up again. He finally gave up and did an online search, where he found plenty of beginner videos. Videos made far more sense anyway.

At least in theory they did. Most were complete rubbish. The instructor went to fast, and Sherlock’s clumsy hands couldn’t catch up. His phone beeped, pulling him out of the pit of despair and yarn he was tangled in, reminding him to go and pick up his goddaughter. He wasn’t about to give up yet, though. At the very least, it was keeping him occupied. During the Tube ride to the nursery, he searched for knitting classes in the area. There was a yarn store that offered classes just a few blocks from the flat, so he and Rosie stopped by on the return trip.

“I was hoping you could give private lessons,” he said as politely as he could with Rosie tugging on his earlobe and giggling. He gently pulled her tiny fingers away and let her study one of his hands, which she always found strangely fascinating.

The woman behind the counter smiled at him. “It’ll be more expensive than the group classes, but it can be arranged if you wish. It’s not for the little one, is it? We do like when they start early, but she’s still a wittle too young, idn’t she?” The woman devolved into baby talk and cooed at Rosie.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “No, they’re for me. Money is not an option.”

The woman looked back up in surprise. “Oh. Okay. Yes, we can do private lessons. Let me just check the schedule.” She pulled up something on the laptop. “Would Tuesdays work? I could do morning or afternoon.”

“No.”

“Umm, Thursdays?”

“No. I require only one lesson. Tomorrow would be ideal.” Rosie grew bored with his hand and started getting fidgety. She must be hungry, used to having a snack as soon as they arrived home from nursery. He pulled an emergency fruit squeeze pack from his pocket, kept for just such occasions. It wasn’t uncommon for the Met to call asking for help, and Sherlock sometimes needed to stop on their trip back to do some research or look at some photos—or, a couple of times, visit the actual crime scene (burglaries only; Rosie wasn’t allowed at murder scenes, of course).

Rosie gasped in happiness. Generally, they fed her homemade foods, so getting the fun squeeze pack was a rare treat for her. He smiled and handed it to her.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the woman apologized. “I’ll be busy all day tomorrow. The earliest I can fit you in is Tuesday.”

“Um, I could do it?”

A mousy-looking woman stepped from behind a set of shelves full of sparkly yarns.

“Laney?” the woman behind the counter asked in consternation. “You’ve only been knitting for a year. Are you sure you’re ready to teach?”

“Yeah. Um, yes. I taught my niece in just an hour. She’s only eight, so I reckon this man shouldn’t have any problems.” Laney ducked her head, looking uncomfortable at having to speak even that much in front of a stranger.

Sherlock wanted to doubt her abilities, but he knew looks could be deceiving. And at worst, he’d waste an hour or two and go back to trying YouTube videos again. He nodded.

“Fine. Nine AM tomorrow.”

Laney’s eyes widened. “Oh. Um. Fine. Okay.” She glanced at Rosie, who was happily getting as much fruity mush on her face as in her mouth. “Will your daughter be joining us?”

“No, she’ll be at nursery,” Sherlock replied, searching for the pack of wet wipes in the nappy bag. Then her words really hit him. “Oh, no, she’s not my– that is I– She’s my goddaughter. I just pick her up from nursery,” he explained lamely.

“Oh. Okay.” Laney nodded, eyes wide. “Nine tomorrow then.”

Sherlock hummed an agreement, cheeks flushed as he cleaned Rosie’s face before heading out the door. It wasn’t the first time someone had mistaken Rosie for his and not at all surprising that it happened. A man with a child was almost always assumed to be the father, but usually his giving an explanation that he wasn’t her father didn’t leave him stuttering and blushing, or not realizing she’d been called his daughter in the first place.

He was getting too familiar, too used to having the Watsons around. Which meant he had to convince them to stay. Which meant learning to knit. It was silly and small and probably not the best way to go about it, but it was all he could think to do.

***

Laney was much better at teaching than she was at conversing. She may have been new to the craft, but she was already very comfortable with it. She was smart and quick to pick up things. She was gentle in her correcting, and the way she taught made far more sense than all the silly videos Sherlock had watched. Better still, when she learned he wanted to make a hat for Rosie, she switched to teaching him the skills he’d need for that endeavor. She also let him know he had the wrong needles for making a hat, as his box from the past only held a pair of straights, and he’d need circulars to “knit in the round” as she called it.

He left the shop near lunchtime with the first inch of his hat complete, having given the promise he’d text if he had questions and that he’d send a picture of the final product when he was done. Laney had said he could stay longer, but it was John’s half day, and they always ate lunch together those days, then took Rosie to the park in the afternoon if there wasn’t a case on.

There was just enough time to hide the evidence in his room before Sherlock heard John’s steps on the stairs, accompanied by Rosie’s whine that signaled she wanted food. Hangry ran in the Watson family. Sherlock met them in the kitchen, John depositing Rosie in her godfather’s arms with only a look of exasperation on his face.

“I’ve–”

“Not a word, Sherlock. I know what you’re going to say. Not. A. Word.”

Sherlock sighed but did as demanded, bouncing Rosie while pouring her a cup of milk. She didn’t like having her routine disrupted. She spent full days at nursery except for Fridays, when John pulled her out just before lunch. Sherlock understood why John wanted her home when he was there—he was trying so hard to be a good dad after the tumultuous first few months after Mary’s death—but it really wasn’t good for her.

“You don’t know what I was going to say, actually,” he finally replied quietly but firmly. His hand shook a little as he twisted the lid shut and handed the cup to Rosie, who took it with a sob disguised as a hiccup. He’d been trying to get up the nerve to suggest this for months. John already allowed Sherlock to pick her up from nursery most days, so this suggestion wasn’t that much of a leap, but he still worried he was overstepping. It was so hard to know how to help out, given they lived in the same house, which wasn’t how it was for most friends. But more than that, Sherlock wasn’t used to such situations as having friends with children. He was only barely beginning to understand how to have friends. Full stop. But he wanted to help. He wanted Rosie and John to be happy. He wanted them to stay.

John looked up from dishing out the chili that had been stewing on the hob since they’d left the house that morning, raising an eyebrow in question.

“I understand why you want her home in the afternoons, so I’m not going to suggest she stay at nursery all day. I could–” He took a deep breath. “I could keep her home all day on Fridays. She’d be far less cranky if she didn’t have to wait for her lunch and nap, not to mention having to brave the Tube ride first. You’d be able to come straight home from work, which would make you less cranky. Then I’d be less cranky for not having to deal with you two after all that.”

John’s eyebrow went down, though his eyes widened in surprise. After a moment, a soft smile played at his lips. “You’d do that for us?”

“Of course, John.”

“What about work?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I’ll tell the Met not to call on Fridays. No client hours either. Of course, if I’m in the middle of a lingering case when Friday arrives, she may need to go in, or at least Mrs. Hudson will have to watch her, but otherwise no cases on Fridays.”

“Sherlock.” John’s eyes glistened with moisture. Then his smile flattened, and his brows furrowed. “I don’t want to take advantage of your generosity. It’s too much.”

“Do you worry I’ll–”

“No! Not at all. You’re wonderful with her. I just.” John sighed. “We’ve taken over so much of your life already. I rely on you constantly. I–”

“And I’m the one who asked you to move in.”

“Demanded actually,” John muttered, making Sherlock smile.

“Exactly. I knew what having a toddler in the house meant. I might not have much experience with children, but I did my research. I did not ask lightly.”

John’s face scrunched. “You’re sure you don’t mind? A whole day with her is a lot.”

“She’s already around all day Saturday and Sunday. Plus, you’re home by noon, so it’s not like I’d have to entertain her all day. Just a few hours.”

“She’s just as often at Molly’s on the weekends as she is home.”

“All the more reason to have a morning alone with her.”

“You already have her a couple of hours after nursery before I get home.”

“Mrs. Hudson takes her at least half that time. Let me do this, John.” He wasn’t sure when exactly he’d gone from being nervous to ask to practically demanding to take Rosie on Fridays. He thought it had something to do with the look on John’s face when he’d asked. He’d seemed … happy at the prospect. There had been the beginnings of tears in his eyes. Tears didn’t bother Sherlock as much as they once had. They’d all cried plenty of them over the past two years. And these had looked like … not quite happy tears. Not relieved tears. Maybe … proud? He couldn’t quite grasp it, but he’d known they’d been good at least.

John huffed. “Okay. Yeah. If you really want, you can watch her on Friday mornings.” He laid his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, gave it a squeeze, then nodded to the table, and they all settled into lunch.

“So, what did you do on your last Friday of freedom?” John asked after they were mostly done. He was cleaning Rosie’s face while Sherlock finished his last few bites. The chili was good. He’d have to thank John’s American colleague for the recipe.

Sherlock opened his mouth to tell him all about his morning’s lessons, then reminded himself he wanted to keep it secret. “Experiment. At Bart’s.”

John’s eyes slid to the left and his forehead crinkled, as they always did when he was confused at something Sherlock had done but too polite to mention it. “Okay? Don’t want to talk about it?”

Sherlock shrugged. “It’s still in the works. Only just got it started before I had to leave.”

“Ah.” John sniffed. “Back to the lab after lunch then?”

“Of course not.” Sherlock frowned in confusion. “We’re taking Rosie to the park after her nap.”

John’s “Oh” was soft. He smiled a slow smile. “Right. Well, you look antsy to do something.”

“What?”

John nodded at Sherlock’s hand, which was apparently trying to tap itself through the table. It stopped and flattened on the scarred wooden surface.

“Research,” Sherlock blurted out. “Thought I’d do some research for my experiment while she naps.”

“Riiight,” John replied. “You go do that then. I’ll get Herself to sleep. Ready by two-thirty?”

Sherlock nodded, making a mad dash for his room while John was allowing it. By the time he remembered the dishes were still out, he could hear the clatter of them being washed up. Rosie must have gone down easily, because the clatters were more cheerful than resentful, as only John could make them sound. He really was very good at that, conveying his mood through the sounds of his chores. Sherlock hoped their decision to keep Rosie home on Fridays meant there would be more days of cheerful clatters in the flat.

***

Molly had Rosie overnight that Saturday. John spent his free afternoon running errands, giving Sherlock time to work on the hat. He had only managed one row during Rosie’s nap the afternoon before. His hands still felt clumsy and unnatural contorting in the positions required for knitting. Laney had assured him it was perfectly natural for new knitters to feel like that and said that the movements would become easier with practice.

He had to remind himself that he hadn’t picked up fencing or martial arts in a few hours either. While his mind was quick to learn new things, his body always required time. Even learning to hold Rosie had taken practice. But anything worth doing was worth the time spent on it, so he persisted. He texted Laney three times Saturday afternoon asking how to do something, and video called her once. She was surprisingly patient with him.

The next week was taken up with a museum burglary. John called in sick to work so he could help, and Mrs. Hudson took Rosie after nursery every day. Luckily Molly was able to take her that weekend as the two men recovered from a week of little sleep.

Routine returned the following week. Little cases popped up that Sherlock was able to solve from the flat or, in one case, after a visit to the client’s garden to find a shovel. Between work and the normal evening activities, the half-knitted hat was mostly ignored.

On top of everyday life keeping him busy, Sherlock was distracted. John had been acting odd for the past couple of weeks. He was leaving the flat to take calls, he’d ignored texts from Sherlock, and he’d been hiding his phone and laptop. The one time Sherlock had managed to get a hold of the latter, the password had been changed, and nothing he’d tried had worked. It was worrisome. Was John planning to move out? Or maybe he’d joined a new dating app and was talking with a woman (or multiple women). It had been almost a year since Mary’s death. That was the usual mourning period, wasn’t it?

Needing a distraction from the distraction of John, Sherlock finally picked up the hat again to finish it. He ran his fingers along the soft yarn, imagining how adorable Rosie would look in it. It matched her eyes perfectly. Hers and John’s. He realized then that he needed more than the hat. He needed _two_. One for John as well, to show how much he cared. Perhaps it wouldn’t be enough. It was surely no match for a woman who wanted to be Rosie’s mother, but it was a start.

He only knit another two rows before Rosie’s screams echoed through the flat, penetrating even his closed bedroom door. She got night terrors sometimes. Sherlock had heard John tidying up the kitchen earlier, so he stood to take care of Rosie himself.

“I’ve got her,” he called down the hall before John could stop his chores.

“Thanks,” John called back. He went back to humming some eighties ballad as he did the washing up.

Sherlock hurried through the kitchen, out onto the landing, and up the stairs. Rosie was standing in her cot, rubbing at her eyes and crying.

“Another bad dream?” he murmured soothingly, bending over to pick her up. She came readily, always needing a good cuddle after a night terror. They settled in the rocking chair squished in the corner of the room. They really did need to get that other room cleared out so they could each have their own space again. He made a vow to do that first thing Monday. They’d probably need to call someone in to check the insulation, paint the walls, and refinish the floor, but it shouldn’t take too long to get everything in shape.

He hummed to Rosie as he went through the steps in his head. _‘Sing me to sleep.’_ What color should they paint the walls? _‘Sing me to sleep.’_ No pinks or purples. A calming blue maybe? _‘I’m tired and I, I want to go to bed.’_

“You know the Smiths?” John leaned against the doorframe, a smile brightening his tired face.

Sherlock came out of his planning and frowned. “The who?” he asked softly, not wanting to disturb Rosie.

“No, The Smiths,” John replied with a toothy grin. Not getting a reaction for something he obviously found funny, he waved it off. “Popular British band from the eighties. That’s what you were singing just now.”

“Oh, you were humming it while doing the washing up.”

“But you know the words. I didn’t think you knew any popular music.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I probably picked it up after years of knowing you. Osmosis.”

“Good. Glad I can teach you something useful.” John nodded to his daughter. “She out yet?”

Sherlock looked into Rosie’s face. Her eyes still fluttered, light catching on leftover tear drops. His chest tightened with fondness. “Almost. A few more minutes, I think.”

***

Between cases and life, it was mid-February before Rosie’s and John’s matching hats were complete. Sherlock was rather proud with how well they’d turned out. The yarn was smooth and soft, the stitches remarkably even, given how clumsy he’d felt making them. They were a simple pattern, just knit stitches forming what Laney called a stockinette stitch pattern. Next time they’d try purling.

The thought excited him more than he expected it to. What started out as a way to pass the time and show his fondness for the Watsons had turned into something he actually liked doing. While it was dangerously easy for him to get lost in his head while performing the repetitive movements (he’d had to rip out several rows on John’s hat when he’d been thinking about a case and had let it grow too tall), it was also calming. It gave his hands something to do instead of tapping out endless rhythms or itching for a cigarette (seven months since his last) or something stronger.

Not to mention, the mathematician in him liked the idea of learning to create his own patterns. Patterns were just math in the end. Even figuring out how to upsize the pattern he’d used for Rosie’s hat so he could replicate one for John had given him a zing of satisfaction. The hobby definitely had merit. Marie from the old letters he’d found with the yarn didn’t know what she was talking about, shunning the craft as too “womanly.” Katie was definitely the smart one in that couple, suggesting it in the first place.

“Sherlock? We’ll be ready to go in five minutes. You still coming?”

“Be there in a moment,” he called to John from his room.

As proud as he was of the final product, the hats looked so inadequate, lying on his bed, small and limp. He wasn’t sure what he’d been thinking, hoping they’d be a sign to let John know that he liked having them here, that he wanted them to stay. They were just hats after all. He hadn’t been able to come up with anything more though. John, proud man that he was, hated when Sherlock spent money on them, so this was all he had. Time spent, rather than money. He sighed, shook his head, and stuffed them into the gift bag Laney had talked him into getting. It made him feel silly, but she said they needed the right presentation. She was so sweet that he’d finally given in.

He stood, straightened his jacket, and grabbed the bag before heading for the lounge.

“Almost ready,” John said, bent in half to look under the sofa. “Just need to find Rosie’s hat. Who took it off her last? It’s not in her bag or coat pocket …” He stood, scratching the back of his neck in consternation.

“Here,” Sherlock managed to reply, feeling like an idiot. God, he wasn’t five years old. Why did he think a handmade gift would work? He held out the bag all the same. “You said it was getting too small, so …”

“Oh,” John’s eyes lit up. “You bought her a new one? Thanks, Sherlock.” He dug into the bag, pulling out both hats. “You got her two? This one’s a little big. One to grow into? Lazy arse.” The last was said with affection and a smile. “Nice color though. Thanks!”

“No. The bigger one is for you. I had leftover yarn after making hers, and your ears are always red after our walks, so I thought you’d like one too. Matching. Family hats, you could say. As much as you love terrible jumpers, I reckon matching hats are right up your street.” He finally stopped his nervous babbling with a grimace. Why had he thought this was a good idea? He’d spent so much time doing this, but it was stupid. So stupid.

He finally had the courage to look up at John’s face. His friend was stroking the soft material with a finger, mouth in a firm line. Sherlock knew what would happen next. John would laugh uncomfortably, tease Sherlock for being sentimental, and stuff both hats in his coat pocket, never to be seen again.

After a minute of silence, John finally met Sherlock’s gaze. His face looked … stunned? “You. You made these. For us. You knitted them yourself?”

Sherlock frowned. “Of course.”

John laughed stiffly. “Of course? Was I supposed to know about this hobby of yours?”

“No, but.” Then he remembered John hadn’t been there when he found the yarn and originally made his plan. “I found the yarn in the wood room. Homespun almost one hundred years ago apparently. I was bored—this was during that lull in early January—so I decided to teach myself to knit so I could make Rosie a hat.”

“You learned to knit because you were bored and Rosie needed a hat.”

Sherlock couldn’t read John’s tone. It was flat and monotone. “Yes?” His stomach clenched.

John laughed again, softer this time, and rubbed his hand across his face. “You are.” He shook his head.

Sherlock dropped his gazed.

“Amazing.”

His head whipped back up to see John grinning at him.

“God, Sherlock. Even after all this time, even after all you’ve done to help us the past year, you still surprise me. Your … heart is so big, it’s hard to believe it took me so long to see you had one in the first place.”

“Yes. Well. You are an idiot.” Sherlock felt a smile tug at his own lips as he said the words.

“Most people are,” John replied, still smiling. “Family hats. I–” He stopped.

“John?”

“One minute. I have a present for you too!” He dropped the hats on the table and dashed up the stairs to his room.

While Sherlock waited, he picked up the smaller hat and tugged it onto Rosie’s head. Good. A perfect fit. She giggled up at him. He pulled out his phone to snap a picture, then sent it to Laney. He got a smiley face reply just as John returned, carrying a manila envelope.

“I–” He interrupted himself when he saw his daughter in her new hat. His face softened. “It’s perfect, Sherlock. Thank you.” He picked up his own hat and pulled it on, then he handed Sherlock the packet. “You forgot a hat though, if they’re for everyone in the family,” he said softly.

Sherlock frowned and pulled a bundle of papers from the envelope. He remained confused until he glanced at the words on the top page. He gasped and jerked his head up to meet John’s (worried?) gaze.

“You want me to adopt Rosie?” he whispered, his throat closing.

John nodded and shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. “I want Rosie to have two parents, and you’ve been that for her the past few months. I’d be honored if we made it official.”

Sherlock shook his head, thoughts rioting. “But I’m just her godfather. What about dating and marriage? A real family? Back to the suburbs and getting a pet. You need mor–”

“Sherlock. Sherlock,” John stepped closer, gripping his arms. “Calm down. Breathe.” Sherlock gulped air. “Okay. Good. Hey, look at me.” John waited for Sherlock to comply, then continued. “Molly and Mrs. Hudson are godparents. They take her for a few hours or a weekend. They enjoy having her around but are more than happy to give her back after. But you. You invited us to move in. You feed Rosie breakfast and calm her night terrors. You pick her up from nursery and offer to take her for a whole day every week just so we don’t disrupt her schedule. You _learned to knit because she needed a hat_. God, Sherlock, I think you’re more of a parent to her than I am. Regardless,” he said with a glare when Sherlock shook his head to refute him. “I don’t want or need a wife. I definitely don’t want a house in the ‘burbs. We can discuss pets later. I have you and Rosie, I don’t need anything else, got that? We’re family.”

Sherlock felt his heart speed up. They were staying? They were _staying_. And more than that, John wanted Sherlock to become Rosie’s father. Then his breath hitched.

“Romantic entanglement …” he began, but John stopped him.

“I don’t care what you call it, but what we have here and now, it’s perfect. It’s what I need and what I want.”

“Sex …”

“Give it a rest, Sherlock. You and me raising Rosie. That’s _all_ I need.” John cocked his head and smirked. “And cases. We’d both be bored to death without those. But I’m done with dating and marriage. Just us, same as we are now. Family. Got it?”

Sherlock let the smile surface again. “Got it.”

“I expect to see you in a matching hat next Friday.”

Sherlock huffed in amused frustration. “Really, John.”

***

A week later, Sherlock sent Laney a new picture. In it, he held Rosie in one arm and had the other wrapped around John’s shoulders. All three were grinning. And all three wore blue hats.

**Author's Note:**

> The song Sherlock is singing to Rosie, in case you wondered, is "Asleep" by the Smiths.


End file.
